The Perfect Wife

Content warning: Knives

The clock chimes loudly, snapping me out of my self-induced trance. 4 chimes, meaning guests will be arriving in 30 minutes. I spend most of my days drifting in a comfortable haze of mundanity, my biggest concern that night’s dinner menu, but the clock seems to be clanging extra loudly this afternoon, making my ears ring and my whole head buzz. I give myself a few seconds to shake my head and arrange a serene smile before William walks in, lest I give him any indication something is wrong. I’ve heard him wandering around since he came home from the office, but I have had too much on my plate to greet him immediately. This dinner party takes precedence over all other tasks today, even delivering my husband’s after work martini with a kiss. Of course, the party is for him, and if successful, will afford him the largest account he has ever had. 

Sure enough, cigarette in hand, in saunters William, carrying the paper. I don’t look up at his lack of greeting, he hardly says 2 words to me when we are alone. He prefers to keep his social battery fully charged and ready for use on the “grown up talk” as he calls it. Its no matter to me, as I have plenty of my own concerns to attend to during the day. The house doesn’t clean itself, and frankly, the less he and I converse, the less likely he is to notice anything is amiss.

I lean down to carefully add the the last sugared cherry to the tart I have spent the better part of today on. It flies out of my perfectly manicured fingers, and rolls somewhere on the floor, leaving a dusting of sugar in its wake. I start to frown, and I can feel the muscles in my neck begin to tighten. I quickly sweep up the mess, being sure to get every last crumb of sugar that touches my floor. Despite my efforts, I can’t locate the cherry that flew out, so its quickly replaced with another. Tart completed, I feel the serene practiced smile make its way back onto my face. 

Carefully, I lower the tart into my fastidiously maintained ice box, being cautious not to bump any of the decor. As I set it down, one of the sugared cherries rolls off the side and plops onto the floor of the ice box. My smile slips, my heart rate starting to quicken. Cherry juice AND sugar in the bottom of my ice chest? I frantically clean the mess, taking the extra time to remove all evidence of cherry red from the pristine white bottom. As soon as the mess is handled, I find myself smiling again, but the annoying tension from my neck still won’t leave.

Frowning, I begin to busy myself with the floral arrangements for the hundredth time. I’m sure once our guests arrive and shower me and my household in compliments, I will feel much better. Structure and routine are the keys to maintaining my sanity now, and the little disturbances from today are disrupting my usually calm train of thought. My sense of individuality has long been drained, my sole purpose now is to provide a well maintained home for my family and find whatever happiness I can while doing so. A round of compliments from William’s business associates sounds like just the ticket to cure my foul mood. 

Well maintained is an understatement for this house, as most of my mental energy is devoted to keeping the place in perfect condition. Every crumb is swept, every dish is polished, every bed is made with military precision. Cleaning is an incredibly mundane task, and during my first few weeks of our marriage I couldn’t tune my thoughts out enough to enjoy it. After several years of effort, I have relaxed into a sort of meditative peace that I now associate with cleaning. I hardly have to try anymore to beat my thoughts into submission, now I easily allow my mind to be wiped to be as clear as the glasses I spend so many hours polishing, drifting in blankness until its time for dinner. 

The doorbell sounds, and I snap to attention, breezing into the foyer with practiced grace, my sensible heels clicking softly on the polished tile. “2 inches is a joke” I snort to myself, as I used to regularly stomp around in sky high stilettos. William prefers a substantial height difference and that’s all that matters now, but I’ll always miss the feeling I get from putting on a killer heel. I freeze in my tracks… its been years since I’ve thought of before, especially so casually. The intrusive thoughts, which brought with them explicit details of my former life, have all but disappeared, and I happily exist in blankness every day. I give myself two sharp slaps to the face, coloring my cheeks and clearing my head. I swing open the door and greet our guests warmly, shaking the hand of the men and hugging the women. I have the greeting down to a science, so coats are stowed and gifts are accepted with flawless grace. By the time William enters the foyer, the men are primed and ready for whiskey and “grown up talk” just as he requires, nobody the wiser to my internal distress. 

With another warm smile, I gently herd the women into the parlor while the men follow William to the formal sitting room. In attempts to be a good hostess, earlier today I had checked to be sure the sitting room was well stocked with an ice bucket, glasses, cigars, matches and Glenlivet 18. The men will be entertained for some time which allows me to socialize with the wives. I run over the dinner menu in my head, paying little to no attention to the meaningless chatter that assaults my ears. Again, I feel my smile start to slip slightly as I imagine the next 4 hours of conversation I’ll surely be subject to with these women. 

By far, the most upsetting part of this charade has been convincing the wives that I do indeed care about Paul’s new wife Lisa and her ever shortening hemlines, or about the neighbors petunias that refuse to bloom. William typically doesn’t require a lot of feedback, and my mind is free to wander to new recipes or something useful when we converse. With the women, I am not so fortunate. Thankfully, the wives of William’s business partners are exceedingly dull, and don’t seem to notice my distracted demeanor. Gathering my smile, I politely begin to participate in the current conversation, agreeing with Mary that the last little blue number we saw on Lisa at church was the most scandalous of all. The women, as expected, start to snicker at my commentary, and the party continues despite my ever worsening disposition. 

As I clear William’s last dessert plate, I survey the remaining damage at the table. Plates are all cleared, glasses are full, and the hum of conversation remains steady, even after several bottles of fantastic red wine. All signs point to a successful party and a signed deal for William, so I’ve at least managed to do my job there. The tart was a huge success and praise was lavished upon me, just as I expected. What is unexpected is the lingering unease in my gut, the compliments and alcohol are doing nothing to soothe me. This is dangerous territory, and I am desperate for our company to leave so I can absorb myself in clean up duty. A good solid kitchen scrub is exactly what I need to feel normal again. Plate in hand, I swing open the door to the kitchen, when my heel connects with something small and slippery. The plate goes flying out of my hand and smashes against the counter, and I land hard on my ass on the unforgiving tile floor. 

Instantly,I feel the pain shoot up my spine. Groaning, I rise and limp over to the sink to brace myself as I breathe deeply and wait for the pain to recede from sharp and throbbing to a dull ache. I won’t be able to get any cleaning done in this state. Even in my injured state, its not lost on me that William hasn’t come to check on me, even though he undoubtedly heard the commotion. Inhaling, I start to feel the pain change and shift, but it's not lessening, it is swelling into something else, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Looking up into the darkened window above the sink, I can feel the sea of burning rage that has been bubbling under the surface start to roil and splash. He couldn’t even get off his ass to make sure I didn’t break anything, plate or otherwise? 

The pain fades completely as I allow myself to be swallowed by a wave of pure rage. After all this effort, all this time changing my appearance, my voice, my identity, shrinking myself down to appease this pathetic little man, and he won’t even rise from his chair to see if I’m injured? Just a minute ago, I was drifting in a sea of grey peacefulness, and now I am drowning in an ocean of fire. It just as well could be yesterday that I arrived here, all the practiced control I’ve spent years developing is gone in an instant, burned to ash in my anger. 

 Shaking uncontrollably I begin to notice a plethora of other new and unwelcome sensations. My back aches, my neck is tight, my feet swollen from these hideous shoes. It feels like I was under the influence of pain medication that has completely warn off. Kicking the shoes off, I select a carving knife from the sink and re enter the dining room. 

“What the FUCK William? Didn’t you hear me?!” I demand shrilly, the pitch of my voice reaching the edge of human capable hearing. The conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and now the only remaining sounds are my labored breathing and the scrape of William’s chair as I force it back from the table. I can feel six sets of eyes watching, our guests too shocked at my outburst to say anything quite yet. Williams face is splotched and purple, but he too is stunned into temporary silence.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, I stab the carving knife into the arm of his chair. “You heard me that time didn’t you? I asked you a question asshole!!” I shriek, widening my eyes for dramatic effect. I spent the better part of my life getting information out of men much tougher than my husband, so this shouldn’t take too long. 2 more minutes in this awful house and then I’m free forever. Screw witness protection, I’ll hide myself this time and they will still never find me. 

My sputtering husband appears to be slowly regaining the ability to form sentences, the “asshole” comment seems to have done the trick. I dig the knife out of the arm chair and brace myself for his response “Darling, I beg your pardon but we have company!! Please excuse yourself at once before you further embararGHHHHH” he gargles and cuts off. I got impatient with his calculated response and shoved my knife into his left thigh to motivate him to react a little more sincerely.

“Come on darling” I drawl sweetly, twisting the knife slowly as I speak “The act is over now you can speak freely in front of our guests, what do you have to say about my behavior this evening? Don’t be shy”. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mary’s husband begin to rise from the table, his hand reaching for one of the solid crystal candlesticks in the middle of the table. In one breath, I wrench the knife out of my pathetic husbands leg and flick it forcefully towards the candlestick. Kevin’s scream of agony is confirmation that my aim has not suffered as much as I thought it would. 

“Come now Kevin man up” I sing, as he sobs and cradles the stump where his right hand used to be “Plus, those candlesticks were just polished! I would hate for you to have gotten fingerprints on them. No fingers, no risk of that now is there?” I grin devilishly, this smile feeling much more at home on my face than the peaceful grimace from a few hours ago. Whirling back to my sniveling husband, I fling my hand out and backhand him as hard I can muster. “ANSWER ME” I scream in his face, drawing his attention away from his friend “I’m sorry I’m sorry I was distracted” he wails, wiping snot from his leaking nose across his sleeve. “We- we were talking about the Monroe deal and I assumed you had just dropped a dish!! Please forgive me my loveee” he draws the last syllable out into a whine and breaks into fresh sobs. Truly revolting. 

I shove away from his chair, pacing to the opposite side of the table to pick up my knife. The guests, other than Kevin and his moaning, are all still terrified into silence, watching every move I make with panicked glances between themselves, as if I may strike one of them next. Mary in particular is staring at me in horror, eyes unblinking. Caressing the blade lovingly, I stroll back over to the whimpering pile of dog shit that is my husband, keeping Mary’s gaze fixed on me all the while. “What do you think Mary, should I forgive him? It was just a little spill after all” I say, smiling as sweetly as I can muster to try to calm her nerves. The smile has the opposite effect, now that I have let the crazy unleash itself from my mental prison. I can still feel the flames of anger licking at my consciousness and I know she can see them reflected in my eyes based on the way she stares. 

“Y-y-yes. I th-th-ink you should. It was j-j-just a spill after all” Mary replies, voice cracking every other word . Grinning even more widely, I nod at her, as if she answered the question correctly. I wait, unmoving until I see her body visibly relax from my reassurance. The second she slumps into her chair, relieved, I flick my hand out once more and sink the knife into my husbands chest. Mary screams as I maintain eye contact with her, all while I drive the knife in as deep as possible, until I feel it exit clean through the chair on the other side. My smile melts into a growl, and Mary’s screams choke off. 

“You know what Mar? You’re probably right, but there’s no fun in that. Now take your crippled husband and your insipid friends and get the fuck out of my sight” 

The dining room is once again filled with noise as Mary and company scramble over themselves and each other to heed my instructions. One of her friends trips on her hemline in the rush, and crawls out on her hands and knees in her eagerness to put distance between us. Soon enough, the dining room is silent, save for the quiet dripping sound of William’s remaining blood volume exiting his body. I grin widely, grabbing the half finished bottle of red in front of me and taking Mary’s recently vacated seat so I can get a good view of my dear husband’s final breath. I kick my feet up on the table, swigging wine directly from the bottle. The ocean of fire in my head feels so familiar, and the blood on my hands feels so much like home, I’ll clean the kitchen later.